


Thirst of Behemoth

by James_Usari



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Gen, Good Omens Big Bang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-22 13:29:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22516882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/James_Usari/pseuds/James_Usari
Summary: Through some drunken loose lips on the Demon Crowley, the monster Behemoth has found out that the Flaming Sword of the Eastern Gate has been lost. It being his only weakness, he now feels free to pursue his attack on humanity, seeking vengeance against the God who created him to win a bet with Satan. Crowley and Aziraphale must now come to terms with their own views on how to engage evil itself: is it better to do a bad thing to good ends, or to do good whatever the end?
Comments: 3
Kudos: 11
Collections: Good Omens Big Bang 2019





	Thirst of Behemoth

**The Thirst of Behemoth**

Created for the Good Omens Big Bang 2019-2020

Author: James Usari

Artist: Desmyblank

**Chapter 1: Dante’s Infernal**

_According to Dante, the seventh terrace Mount Purgatory is where the lustful lose their sins. A wall of flame represents the fire of passion, and those seeking repentance must walk through it to get cleansed of their final sin. A falsehood, that, although it cannot entirely be blamed on Alighieri himself. He did what he could with the memories he had left after visiting the actual seventh terrace: a pristinely situated bar, with a view of the sunset. Prime real estate. There, the penitents wash away their sin through a hundred nights of pure debauchery, cleansing their innards through the disinfecting fire of whiskey, tormented by the shrieking wails of the involuntarily celibate and the cries of those caught in the tenth circle of hell: the friend zone. It is no wonder that, after that, Dante just made something up, for he could not for the life of him remember what had actually happened._

The Demon Crowley found himself in a similar position, although instead of the seventh terrace he found himself in _‘The Yard’_. According to themselves, one of Soho’s most unique venues, which at this particular point in time was most certainly true.

“I… I just… just offered him a LIFT, you know!” He blurted out, sliding his half-empty tumbler between his hands.

“How… How long have we known each other, eh? Years! At… at least!”

Next to him sat a big, broad, brawny man, hunched over an enormous pint of beer, nibbling from a bowl that seemed to contain some sort of seaweed. His eyes, like Crowley’s, were hidden behind a thick pair of sunglasses, and his head was covered by a run-down bowler hat. This was the first time he gave any sign of life in the thirty minutes that Crowley had been orating.

“Who in God’s Name are you going on about, then, if shutting up is not an option?” he said, a deep rasping voice, emanating from the pit of his throat. Crowley took a sideways glance at him.

“An… an ANGEL” he managed to get out, pouring the last of his whiskey down his throat and signalling the barman for some more.

“Heh… You too?” the man replied, he himself chugging the rest of his pint down. He too ordered another.

“No, but you see… You see… An ACTUAL… ANGEL” Crowley said, kicking himself off from the bar to make a full rotation on his bar stool.

“Angels are boring mate, trust me” the man replied, nibbling on his seaweed some more and washing it down with another chug.

“Nah, you see…” Crowley responded, getting real close and personal with the man. Some might even say, invading his personal space.

“This angel is… just enough of a bastard. The others don’t like him much, you see.”

“So, what did this bastard angel do then?”

“He stole w… water! All for me! That was sweet… The stealing, I mean. The water’s… fine, I guess? I better not taste it…”

“Fascinating…” the man said, with a tone of someone who did not find it fascinating at all.

“No… not impressed, I see?” Crowley responded, being in just the right state of mind to notice when his veracity was being challenged, and in just the right state of mind to take great offence at that prospect.

“He… he once got a flaming sword! All new, brand new! Heh, brand… Brand new big flaming sword he got” he said, happy to see that the man got a sudden interest in his story.

“Really?” the man said, now turning to face Crowley, who was happy to see his boasting finally had the effect he was aiming for.

“Yeah! Big, massive flaming sword. And you know what he did with it?”

“Go on…” the man replied, with a voice that was more a low growl than actual English.

“He… You must promise to keep it a secret, yeah? Higher-ups mi… might get all jumpy. Especially Gabriel…”

The man shook his head like an angry rhinoceros would, readying for the charge.

“I promise, Crawley, not a word”

“Alright… I would prefer Crowley, though”

“Sure, Crowley. Tell me about the sword…”

“He… he gave it away! The absolute mad… Mad devil, you might say! HA!”

Instead of seeing a look of amazement, which was what Crowley was gunning for with his boast, he just saw a wide grin appear on the man’s face. He shook like an ox would shake off flies, and a low crocodile rumble emanated from his chest.

“Aziraphale gave away his sword…” he said.

“Yeah, yeah, he…”

Suddenly, a few things at once hit Crowley. Of course, not having mentioned either his own name or Aziraphale’s, it was quite strange that this man knew about them. The seaweed was also strange, since it certainly was not on the menu, a quick glance learned. The hands that were wrapped around the pint were not hands as such, but rather looked like the claws of a large, black bear. And, he noticed, somewhere in the last few sentences they had switched to speaking in Hebrew, earning them an interested gaze from the barman.

“I see…” Crowley said. On the shelf, the now almost empty bottle of Famous Grouse began to fill itself up again, Crowley now squirming to get the alcohol out of his system.

“Who are you?” he asked plainly, drawing up his knees to his chest and placing his feet against the bar.

“Is it so long ago, Crowley, that you would not recognise an old… acquaintance?” the man answered. As he stood up, the demon could see his full stature unfold. He stood as tall as a dockworker and a half, his hatted head almost hitting the beams that stretched across the roof of the bar. The bar fell silent and looked at him in awe. A cow’s tail protruded from under his brown, worn-down jacket, and the grin below his bearded face grew larger.

“I am thirsty, Crowley. I am going to drink, and drink, and drink… Jerusalem will be destroyed, Mesopotamia will dry up, the Nile will turn to sand. I am unstoppable, Crowley. Without the flaming sword…”

Before Crowley could say anything in response, Behemoth had already raised one of his giant claws and brought it down towards the demon. Just before it connected, Crowley used his curled-up legs to push himself away from the bar, stool and all. The clawed hand missed him by a hair’s breadth and shattered the bar as if a grenade had blown it to bits. Landing on his feet, Crowley managed to avoid a piece of wood being hurled in his direction, followed by a monumental roar from Behemoth and a flurry of bar stools. Jumping across a few tables, Crowley threw himself through the street side window, landing just beside the front tires of the Bentley.

“Well…” he said, dusting the shards of glass from his arms.

“Angel just fucked up bad…”

**Chapter 2: Mesohippopotamus**

_While Dante had at least some interesting points to make with regards to hell and purgatory, his vision of heaven is just him riffing. His visa application got lost in the mail, and due to administrative reasons we could not allow him entry. You know how it is. Had we known the drivel he was going to put to print following it, we might have miraculously ‘found’ his application to give him a quick tour._

_The simple mistake Dante made is that he did not quite understand what the front office meant when they said ‘incomprehensible’. Dante took this to mean something absolutely otherworldly, maddening, and beyond the realm of the sane. While this is partially true, we were clearly not operating on the same wavelength. Heaven is incomprehensible, in the way that it is gentrified in its entirety, without any subsequent racism or breaking up of local communities. It is all vegan minibars and soy shake hot tubs. This is wholly impossible on earth, where the increased land value must necessarily destroy local communities who have to move elsewhere to live affordably. Heaven, however, allows such uneconomic occurrences as fair gentrification._

_Which is the reason the angel Aziraphale feels so at home in Soho._

It was late at night at the A.Z. Fell & Co antiquarian. That is to say, it was late at night everywhere between GMT and GMT-4, or thereabouts, but the relevant lateness occurred at the angelic bookshop at a Soho street corner. The antiquarian’s windows were the only ones illuminated on the block, casting a faint orange glow onto the cobblestones outside. The innards of the shop were similarly hued orange, with many candles standing and hanging all through.

The Angel Aziraphale, his hands held firmly on his back, paced between the stacks of books he had collected over many, many years. Normally, striding past all the years of human knowledge made him feel comfort, and not an insignificant amount of pride. Standing at the Eastern Gate of Eden, he would never have guessed that humanity would accomplish so much. Mainly because he expected the 14th century would do them in for good. Aziraphale loved to brush his hands past the many covers, remembering the beauty that humanity had already created.

Now, however, his hands were held firmly behind his back. Unbeknownst to him, Aziraphale was pacing in a pentagram-formation through his shop, his mind focussed on his demonic friend and companion.

_Shall I give you a lift home?_

Such an innocuous question. A simple ride with his automobile, to be dropped off home, a quick cup of earl grey the way Crowley liked it. Azirphale glanced at the kettle standing on his desk, two cups standing beside it. He sighed, and resumed his path, trying to get his mind on one of the million billion other things that he could think about in his bookshop. A book about the Knights of the Table Round! He remembered when he was on a mission for Arthur, and then met… No, alright. A history of wine-making. Wine is made with very peculiar grapes. The best grapes he had ever had he had in Paris during the… and then there was the…

Aziraphale looked back at the empty cups.

_Cowardice is not a deadly sin. Maybe that is why Angels are susceptible. Cowardice is just humility, chastity and patience wrapped into a neat package, really._

Aziraphale suddenly turned around on his heels. He pensively put his finger to his mouth, as if he were shushing the whole of existence for a moment.

_Ah, but God was a God of second chances! After all, there was…_

He turned around a corner and found himself next to old medieval manuscripts. Most of them were versions of bibles or other theological works, with the crucifixion depicted in ever-more gory detail. As soon as Europeans had invented the coloured print and the red dye, they had wasted no time in depicting the crucifixion from all angles. Aziraphale turned around on his heels again.

_Or maybe not…_

At that exact moment, as by divine intervention, there was a knock on the door. Four knocks in quick succession, with a tiny pause between the third and the fourth. A signature knock, and a way of the Demon Crowley to remind Aziraphale _‘that they had Beethoven’_ , as he always put it. Apparently, starting to be all ‘peace, friendship, heavenly fields, holiness’ in his last symphony had not done enough good on the balance of his soul. Aziraphale froze for a second, his finger tapping against his upper lip.

_Maybe cowardice is a virtue. That’s what a coward would say. Then again, if cowardice is just three virtues put together, then perhaps we should listen to cowards more. I really should have paid attention during the meetings when we put these together. Might have put a good word in for ‘minding your own business’._

A second knocking followed. This time, it was something from Bach. Aziraphale suddenly forgot his qualms, and strode briskly to the door. With a mighty heave he opened the double door entrance, looking menacingly at Crowley. The Demon was soaked with the torrential downpour that had chosen tonight to come down.

“Now listen here, Crowley!” Aziraphale said, trying his very best to look at least somewhat menacingly. Seeing his Demon friend looking like a wet dog after a swim immediately began to tug at his heartstrings, however, which created the tiniest hint of a heavenly melody.

“Please, do come in” he said. Crowley nodded and shot by him. “But I must insist that Bach is most definitely…”

“Yeah, yeah” Crowley answered, throwing his wet coat onto the hat stand. The coat had dried entirely before hanging itself crookedly over a peg. Crowley could have chosen to throw it perfectly straight, but had elected not to. Instead of greeting his friend, he began to wander about the premise. Aziraphale followed him, rather confused about his friend’s strange behaviour.

“Listen, Crowley… About just now…” he tried, but the Demon seemed to busy scanning the book cases, looking beneath furniture, and failing entirely to look inconspicuous.

“Never mind” Aziraphale said. Was Crowley doing a bit? Was this some sort of test?

“Would you like some tea?” he tried, hoping to at least to get his friend to sit down. The Demon did not react. He stood still for a moment, placing his hand on the back of one of the larger books on the shelf. With a pull he got it out, almost having to catch it with both hands to stop it from slamming into the ground. A cloud of dust followed it soon after, covering Crowley’s hair and jacket with dust pellets. Uncharacteristically, he seemed not to care.

“Oh, let me get that for you” Aziraphale said, starting to pick them off one by one. From close up, he could finally see the eyes of his friend. There was something behind them, something that smelled of fear. Speaking of smell, Aziraphale noticed a strange odour hanging about Crowley.

“Say, Crowley, did you go to the zoo? You smell of… of hippopotamus”

“Aziraphale…” Crowley replied. He might as well have slapped the Angel in the face right then and there. Crowley hardly ever called him by his full name. “Have a seat”

Aziraphale took a few steps back and sat down in one of the two chairs, conveniently placed next to each other next to the kettle and the two cups. Crowley opened the tome with some difficulty, causing another cloud of dust to explode into the room. As if walking through a mist, the Demon stepped towards his friend.

“Angel, do you remember the Seventh Prediction of Methusaleh upon the Starting of the Rains?” he said with a grave voice. At that moment, Aziraphale turned pale instantly. He remembered the wisdoms of Methusaleh all too well. He was there when they were recounted to Noah for safekeeping.

“Oh lord” he said, putting his shaking hand to his head as he began to recite.

_“And it shall rain for Forty Days and Forty Nights, and all shall perish”_

“Are you telling me that... that…” Aziraphale muttered. It was beyond belief. God had made a promise. The rainbow, she would never…

“No, wait, hold on…” Crowley said, taking off his sunglasses and squinting at the page.

“Sorry, the Seventeenth Prediction of Methusaleh”

“Oh” Aziraphale said, wiping a few beads of sweat from his brow and giving an awkward smile. He looked pensively into the middle-distance.

“And ye fools, the Festival of Fyre shall come, but like Babel it shall perish for its hubris?” Aziraphale recounted. He had never quite gotten that prediction, if he were to be completely honest. Crowley shook his head.

“Damn medieval calligraphy...” he muttered angrily. “Here, read it yourself” he continued, handing the tome over. Aziraphale received it gently, holding it as if it had been a new-born babe. He took from his coat pocket his reading glasses, which were entirely unnecessary with his heavenly vision.

“Ah” he said, sagely. “The forty-first, I see: _There shall be two beasts for Job, and one shall only die by the hands of Gabriel, and the other shall only die by the flaming sword of the Principality of the Eastern Gate_ ”

This prediction was among the clearer ones. When God bet against Satan that Job would never lose faith, he created two monsters: the Leviathan, a sea-serpent, and Behemoth, a terrible creature of eternal thirst beyond the veil of morality. Leviathan had been destroyed by Gabriel after she was releashed, and it was said that Behemoth had perished by the hand of God soon after his creation.

“How does this matter? The beasts were destroyed” Aziraphale said, placing the book gently on his study. “I must say, it is good to see you finally taking an interest in…”

His delighted smile disappeared together with his voice as he looked at the Demon. Now, fallen angels always have a guilty look about them. Treason against God has a way of inflicting permanent, fundamental guilt on a being. Crowley, however, looking down at his feet, whistling ‘row row row your boat’ with his hands behind his back, looked like a fundamental representation of guilt and shame. Suddenly, Aziraphale felt a foreboding twist in his stomach. The lights in the bookshop dimmed, and the hearth fire went out as if hit by a sudden gust of cold wind. The quaint crackling of logs was replace by the sound of cold rain against the window panes.

“You didn’t!” Aziraphale said, rising to his feet. “You let him _loose_?”

“Did not!” Crowley retorted, his voice high-pitched with anxiety.

“He… it… but… still… what…” he began, pointing to a different spot in the three dimensional space around him with every attempt at a coherent sentence.

“Come on, have you never come across an ancient being of pure hunger in a local pub?”

Aziraphale remained silent, nervously playing with his thumbs.

“Forget I asked. But Angel… “ he said, approaching his oldest friend. “There is still something we can do”

Aziraphale bit his lip, and started pacing around his shop again. Unlike the earlier pacing, though, he was almost jogging, one hand covering his mouth while the other was clenched into a fist.

“Yes… Yes… We can still outmanoeuvre him” he said. The sight of Aziraphale planning was one of the things that mad existence on earth worth it’s wile. He wandered from bookshelf to bookshelf, as if wandering his own mind. He walked past a hundred books, opening mental drawers, walking into dead ends and tracing back his steps to where he could find his imaginary footing again.

“We have the power of heaven on our side!” he exclaimed. “Yes, we can take him on. We just need to know where he is going. If we agree to treat, we can force him back into oblivion. It’s really very simple… It’s perfect! We threaten him with destruction, and send him back to the hole from whence he came.”

Crowley, for the first time since getting his holy water from Aziraphale, managed to conjure a smile. Hope. That was exactly what he had lacked. The Angel, his hope like wings spread wide, shining like the moon in his little Soho bookshop. The flame in the hearth had rekindled, the lights had regained their strength, the sound of crackling logs kept the sound of rain at bay. Crowley took off his sunglasses and looked Aziraphale straight into his eyes.

“Yes, Angel… Let’s do this!” he said, holding out his hand. Aziraphale grabbed it firmly. “My car is outside”

“Yes.. let’s!” Azirpahale answered. “It’s a good thing he does not know I lost my sword, or this would all be quite useless”

**Chapter 3: Marching on hell**

_In a speech regarding his alliance with the Soviet Union during the Second World War, Churchill had to explain why he was suddenly cooperating with his mortal enemy, even if it was to defeat the Third Reich. He is said to have spoken the words “If Hitler invaded hell, I would make at least a favourable reference to the Devil in the House of Commons”. Now, Winston and myself got us a bit of a pickle, there, you see, and after his death in 1965 we had ourselves a stern talk about priorities. It became quite the philosophical argument, whether earthly evil could ever outweigh the forces of Evil themselves, and whether all opposition to Evil was itself worth it, or whether those who oppose Evil can be evil themselves. It became a rather long-winded thing, and we never got around to talking about India._

_I say conversation, but it was rather more a speech on my end. Winston never got further than “God? A woman? Preposterous!”_

At the time I was having that conversation, our volume was well-contrasted by what was happening in a little bookshop in Soho, London, where a meeting of Right and Wrong was not set to the tones of high debate and discussion, but rather to what anyone would dub ‘an awkward silence’. Awkward, here, both in the sense that it was clearly showing some sort of discomfort in those present, and awkward in the sense that it was bothersome. With every tick of the giant cuckoo’s clock, there was less time between Behemoth and his next target. Yet here, in Aziraphale’s bookshop, Crowley and Gabriel were staring at one another, quite indignant at the presence of the other.

After twenty minutes of this, Michael cut in with a light cough.

“Gabriel… could we…” she started, but Gabriel waved away her objections.

“No, no… I nearly got him…” he said, continuing to stare at the Demon.

“Gabriel, one: You, lantern of justice, watcher over humanity’s righteousness, are incapable of blinking. Two: the Demon is wearing sunglasses”

Gabriel now turned to Michael, a questioning look on his face. “But surely, he would not just fake…” but before he could finish his sentence, Crowley cut him off.

“Hah, I win” he said, setting himself down in one of Aziraphale’s more comfortable chairs. Aziraphale, who was himself sitting in the only other chair of any real comfort, quickly got up so Gabriel could sit down, pretending to Crowley that he was just getting up to check some bookshelf. He looked very pensive, staring at 16th century Mongolian recipes for yak milk.

“So…” Gabriel said, glancing foully at Michael. “This Demon claims that he saw the Beast Behemoth, who has become unshackled from his prison”

First Crowley nodded, and then Aziraphale followed soon after. It could be interpreted like that, of course. Unshackled from a prison of his mind, freed from the threat of Aziraphale and his flaming sword, but freed nonetheless.

“Yes, yes” Aziraphale added. “Ripped those… those chains right out of that wall. Of sorts. In a way.”

Aziraphale winked at Crowley, unseen by the other Angels. Crowley smiled in return, but it was a boon for the both of them that Aziraphale could not see his rolling eyes.

“And why would he tell us this? Isn’t Behemoth on his side?” Michael added. Aziraphale was quick to interject here, as it was something he had been rehearsing in his mind.

“It’s a common misconception, but Behemoth is not demonic. He… it… is actually part of the Primordial Sea, which he drank at the behest of the Almighty. He predates Angels, and therefore, Demons.”

“Is he good or evil?”

“Neither and both, I’m afraid” Aziraphale said. “He was created before morality, before emotion. He has no concept of right or wrong, and no idea of remorse. He just follows his instincts”

“Like a human” Gabriel added. Aziraphale could not answer quickly, but Crowley swiftly interjected.

“Or any other animal, but gifted with the possibility of higher reasoning and speech”

“Did it not have a weakness? This Behemoth?” Michael said, herself now pensively pacing through the bookshop. “I distinctly remember something like that…”

“No, no…” Aziraphale tried, but Gabriel beat him to it.

“Yes! That’s true! What was it, something with an S… S… Sw…”

Aziraphale, who was not willing to let his colleagues know he had misplaced the Flaming Sword of the Eastern Gate, now threw a piercing gaze at Crowley, trying to communicate his unhappiness with the way this situation was unfolding.

_A: Think of something! You’re the one with the clever un-truths!_

_C: It’s not really my problem, is it? Maybe it’s good that they find it out sooner rather than later._

_A: I’ll be stuck with paperwork for weeks! Months! And maybe I’ll blame you!_

_C: You wouldn’t!_

_A: No, I wouldn’t, I’m physically incapable, but if I could that would have been a rather good play._

_C: Granted. Alright. What’s with ‘un-truths’ by the way? Just call it a lie._

_A: A… A… l…_

_C: Yes, go on._

_A: A… L… Lie-ish if you look at it in a certain angle and…_

_C: Argh, never you mind. I’ll handle it._

It was a testament to their friendship that all this was communicated through the simple waggling of eyebrows and pouting of lips. Crowley, feigning surprise with the least possible amount of effort, snapped his fingers.

“Oh, I remember!”

Three angels, their faces portraying varying amounts of surprise, irritation, and hopeful expectation, now gave him their fullest attention.

“Sloths” Crowley blurted. Two angelic faces turned to surprise, and one turned to abject horror, the allocation of which is left to the reader.

“Sloths?” Gabriela and Michael asked in unison. Gabriel’s face actually lit up for a second, probably imagining how best to propel a sloth at a high kinetic velocity.

“Giant sloth claws. That’s it” Crowley added. A week before, he and Aziraphale had watched a nature documentary on the South American rain forest, which dedicated a rather large amount of its runtime explaining the difference between the two-toed and the three-toed sloth. Which, for those interested, related to the number of fingers it had.

“Seven giant sloth claws” he continued “forged into a Great Mace in the very fires of…” but before he could finish the sentence, he spotted the waggling of two white, angelic eyebrows that could only indicate _‘don’t push it’_. 

“Ah, I see” Michael said. “But those are extinct, and have been for thousands of years”

“Have they? Ow, a shame, I wanted to check them out before they vanished! Get myself some of that… claw…” Crowley said, with the pretence matched only by other Shakespearean actors.

“So, no weakness that can presently be exploited…” said Michael, looking ponderously out the window. Gabriel, liking the aesthetic, joined her, and together they looked ponderously out the window.

“Then, we have no choice. We have to contact Behemoth, see if there is some kind of deal to be struck” Gabriel said. The room again turned silent. Crowley looked at Aziraphale in unbelief, and was surprised when his angelic friend looked not surprised, but mere uncomfortable.

“You can’t be serious. It’s a monster!” he exclaimed. “It has to be destroyed”

“Thank you, Demon” Michael said viciously. “We will take it under consideration, as we do all Demonic prepositions”

“Ang… Aziraphale, you say something! This is preposterous!”

“Yes… well… you see…” Aziraphale started, but a wave from Gabriel cut him off.

“You know the consequences, Aziraphale” the arch-angel explained. “If he is indeed indestructible, then we need to cut our losses. Maybe we can satiate his appatite, make sure that he does not hit an area of importance to the Cause”

“You would rather deal with him than oppose him?”

“If opposition causes more harm than good, then yes. We have a Greater Purpose to defend” Gabriel retorted. One last time, Crowley looked at Aziraphale, but he had cast his eyes down at the floor.

“Aziraphale?” Gabriel asked, slowly pacing towards him as he did. “Do you concur?”

“I…” Aziraphale looked at Gabriel, and then at Crowley, only meeting his furious gaze for a second, and finally relented.

“I concur”

**Chapter 4: Deal without the Devil**

The Bentley slowly drove up to the edge of Broxbourne. Or rather, to the edge of where Borxbourne used to be. The stately country homes, old brick buildings and thatch roof sheds had been reduced beyond ash. Here and there, the crumpling remains still stood, slowly devoured by the decay of flames. The flames cast an eerie red glow upon the clouds above, which is why the angels and the demon had been able to find it in the first place. Between heaven and earth, a million embers flew like fireflies in the night sky. Somehow, the remains of the town resembled a garden of sorts. The fire looked alive, growing and eating all around it. It was a carnivorous garden, not a reflection or a demonic possession of a garden, but a creation of one’s own, entirely separate from the creations of the Almighty.

As the four occupants stepped out of the car, they were hit by the heat of roaring flame and the smell , not only of fire, but of smoking flesh. Black clouds and flying ash obscured from view the quaint hills and traditional countryside.

“My word…” Michael whispered as she covered her face with an angelic napkin.

“Why don’t we drive on?” Gabriel asked. “Are we going to walk through _that?_ ”

“First of all, it’s _my_ car, Cupid” Crowley said with a growl, walking towards the ruins.

“And it doesn’t handle fire all too well. It’s a bit like you, in that regard”

“Let’s just… get a move on, shall we?” Aziraphale insisted, covering his own mouth with the sleeve of his sweater.

Entering what was once Broxbourne, only Crowley seemed unfazed by what they saw. This was not the work of a sudden blast, like that of an atomic bomb. The remains were scratched by giant claw marks. The remains of people, strewn about, looked like they had been torn to shreds person per person. The age, gender, heritage of the remains was indistinguishable. One could only make a difference between large and small bodies, for as far as there was enough left even to identify that. Gabriel, his coat flowing in the wind, tried to present himself as unfazed, but Crowley could see the clenched fists at his side. He purposefully averted his face whenever Crowley looked.

“So senseless…” Michael said. “What is the purpose?”

“Yeah, purpose would make this all a lot easier to stomach for you lot, wouldn’t it?”

“Crowley…” Aziraphale said, walking beside his friend.

“I know you don’t like what we are doing here, but please…” His voice was exasperated more than annoyed. It was tiring, being in such a place as this. The senselessness weighed physically on the three angelic beings. Mentally, it weighed on all four of them.

They first saw the dark figure when they entered what had been the town square. The only building still structurally intact was the church, its bell tower burning like a torch in the night sky. Like some picture of Nostradamus the tower spit fire in four directions, the bell inside having been molten by the heat. Its light cast the town square in eerie shadows. The dark figure was set upon a throne of brick and burning rubble, the shadow it cast beaming across the square. Its features were obscured by darkness, both those of the ruins around and some quintessential darkness that flowed from the creature itself. Unlike the evening before, he seemed incorporeal, a being of primordial night.

“Good night” the creature said with the low rumble of an approaching hurricane. His voice had the same resonance of the inferno that was raging around them.

“Not a traditional _greeting_ ” Gabriel said, puffing his chest, folding his hands behind his back.

“What can I say” Behemoth said, standing up from his throne and taking a few steps forward. “I am not traditional”

His face, like a mixture of a dozen predatory animals from crocodile to hippo, was gnarled and hostile. His teeth were like a an Escher painting, and one could not easily see where one row ended and another began. As he spoke, his mouth moved as if eating his way through the fabric of space.

“I demand you surrender to the forces of righteousness!” Gabriel said. From the corner of his eye he could see Crowley rolling his.

“I give you five seconds”

“How contrarian, arch-angel!” the beast responded, almost gleefully. “Your Almighty gave me Eternity”

“Have it your way. _Michael!_ ” Gabriel shouted, snapping his fingers. The archangel suddenly spread her wings, rising above the collection of angels and demons with one feathery beat. She basked in heavenly light, piercing the black, billowing clouds that had blocked any other light before, and from her sleeve retrieved a glass orb filled with liquid.

“Back to the abyss, demon!” she proclaimed. With that, she cast down the glass ball towards Behemoth. It was like a stained glass window come to life, and did not fail to impress the angels present. Crowley wondered, rather, if it would not have been more prudent to just throw it in his big head. It would have given him less time to step aside. Unexpectedly, the beast failed to move aside. With a crystalline crash the ball hit him square on the jaw, the glass splintering into a million fragments. The holy water held inside splashed across his face, wetting the run-down bowler hat and the fur lining of his coat.

For a moment, there was silence. Then, the beast put his claws to his face and wiped off the water like it were sweat after an exertion, or water after a shower. There was no scream, no puff of smoke, no burning sensation that indicated demonic demise. Crowley took of his sunglasses to watch, while Aziraphale slowly took a few steps back.

“You still do not understand” Behemoth proclaimed.

“You like to divide the world, Angels, into people like you, and people like him” he said, pointing at Crowley.

“But your Almighty has created things beyond your feeble understanding. Outside your limited rationale. Forces of fundamentality you fail to comprehend.”

“What do you want, then?” Aziraphale asked. Behemoth seemed surprised by the question.

“Was what it?” the beast asked, seemingly more to himself than those present. “That Christmas decoration is the only fight you are going to put up? Colour me surprised, Angel…”

“Answer the bloody question already!” Crowley shouted, starting to pace around like an impatient predator behind zoo glass. “What do you want?”

“I will answer your questions in my own time, Demon” was the response. “I am not bound to honour your desires, and I have no intention of considering them”

“We might be able to help you!” Aziraphale said, desperation flowing from his every word. “You want to drink, we want to protect humanity. We can… we can strike a deal”

Behemoth snorted, the sound of a rhinoceros exhaling, and took a few steps back to reseat himself on his makeshift throne.

“What do you have to offer, then?” He said, rumbling curiously. “What will you give for me… leaving Jerusalem?”

“Jerusalem…” Michael said, suddenly quivering. “You’re not…”

“The destruction of Jerusalem will cause a chain reaction that will destroy the Near East. Humanity is posed for its own destruction. It is its single greatest weakness.”

“Lake Victoria” Gabriel stated simply. “We can trade you Lake Victoria if you leave Jerusalem alone”

“That’s… 30 million people rely on Lake Victoria!”

“ _Shut up_ ” Gabriel hissed between his teeth. “I’ll give you the credit for down below if you want”

“That’s not…” Crowley started, but Behemoth interjected.

“Intriguing proposition” he said, his simian hand stroking his chin. “Why this trade?”

“Does it matter?” Gabriel retorted. “You get your fix, we get to keep Jerusalem. Do you agree?”

“What are you doing? You can’t trust him to keep promises!” Crowley tried again, but again he was silenced.

“It’s all we can try! Better to lose those 30 million than the hundreds of millions we lose in the war he plans to start”

This argument came not, as Crowley had anticipated, from Gabriel or Michael. It had come from the lips of Aziraphale, who stood shaking and trembling amidst the ruins of the town, visibly shaken by all that occurred. Pearly tears rolled down his cheeks, and the sleeves of his sweater were wet and dirty.

“Please… we can’t risk it” He said, sobbing. “We cannot save a person by killing ten in their stead. Please, Crowley…”

“But we must at least try!” Crowley tried, but his stomach twisted and churned at the sight of his friend. It was no use. There was no sense pressing it. The angels had made up their mind long before, always ready to sacrifice for the greater good.

“I agree” Behemoth said, quashing any hope Crowley had of convincing him or the angels otherwise. The monster got up from his throne.

“And for the insolence of this demon, whom you took to berate me, I will only destroy… A tenth of Jerusalem. Goodbye”

As he said that, dark wings and previously unseen spread from his back, a mixture of the wings of a bat and those of various birds. They were not black, but dark-coloured, a pallet of dark greens and purples, blues and reds. With a mighty heave, he lifted himself up, higher and higher, until he vanished through the dense billows of black smoke that rose from the many fires around him. The angels and the demon looked after him. For a moment, there was silence, but the roar of the flames about them.

“I will inform the Almighty” Gabriel said, carefully and ruefully “… that concessions have been made for the Greater Good. Michael…”

With that, the two arch-angels vanished without a trace. Crowley and Aziraphale stood alone among the darkness. Aziraphale approached his friend, but he gave no sign of recognition. He just kept staring at the flaming rubble throne, which was collapsing under its own weight.

“Crowley… I…” Aziraphale started, but there was nothing he could say. There was nothing the two of them did not know already. With all confusion cut away, the only thing left was disagreement. There were no different facts that could convince either.

“I’m going to Jerusalem” Crowley stated simply. “You can come along, or you can stay here for all I care”

“I will come” the angel said, simply. “There is little else for me to go if you’re not around”

**Chapter 5: Deal or no deal**

The Bentley made its way down Israeli Highway 66 with incredible speed, and in incredible silence. In Crowley’s regular driving style, it flung itself around corners, weaving in and out of the morning traffic at a tremendous pace. Towns and hills flashed past, as did cars and people. In the east, the sun slowly started rising, casting an orange glow over the ancient lands of biblical past. Unlike the biblical past, though, which was rather loud and voluminous, the occupants of the Bentley sat in silence, as they had been since they had set off the night before. No attempt at conversation had been made by either side, not even when they crashed through the border check on the Austrian-Hungarian border and the Soviet tanks started opening up. Not even when they crossed the Caucasus and flung their way through a second border checkpoint in Turkey. Now, after driving almost 4000 miles at 300 miles per hour, Aziraphale spoke for the first time since Broxbourne.

He looked out the window, solemnly watching the arid landscape shoot past the window. Small forests dotted the landscape, broken up by green farmland and rocky hills.

“I like what they did with the place” he said. A sideways glance at Crowley showed him he was not engaging. He kept his eyes strictly on the road, which was entirely not his usual driving style. If Crowley watched the road, it was because he wanted to.

“The humans, I mean” Aziraphale added. If Crowley was not going to talk back, he was just going to monologue until he reacted.

“I never imagined this place as anything else than barren and dreary. You would not think…”

He halted, pondering his choice of words.

“You would not think that, one day, this is where the Beast will give the command”

The plains of Megido rolled past like a quiet sea, unaware that it would grow to the violence of a thrashing hurricane one day. Early birds worked the land, now and again startled by the speed of the Bentley roaring past them. Aziraphale was slightly amused by one farmer having to grab hold of his hat, his beard waving in the gust they left behind. Azirphale could not see these verdant green pastures turn to fire, he could not imagine it. It was surreal to know that, while it would happen, there was no evidence of that monumental and final event.

“Do you ever think about it, Crowley? Armageddon?” Aziraphale asked. There was silence, again. Through the dark sunglasses, the angel could not see the eyes of his friend. There were no emotions to gather. Then, sudden like a gunshot, Crowley spoke. His voice was cracked and bitter as he spat out the words.

“I didn’t used to, you know” he said, pushing the words through his teeth. “Not until six hours ago”

“Wh…” Aziraphale tried, but he was cut off immediately.

“I always thought we would be in it together, angel. Armageddon. The Son of Satan, come to end the world. Run away to… to… Alpha Centauri, or something, I don’t know”

He sniffed, wiping his nose with his sleeve.

“But you! You did not even hesitate when they gave up fighting Behemoth. All for the greater good, of course. All for the Great Plan you lot like so much”

You lot. It had been a long time since Crowley had referred to Aziraphale and the other angels as ‘you lot’, and it felt strangely distant and accusatory.

“I thought we had our own side, Angel” he continued, now more resigned than upset.

“But when the day comes, I suppose you will fall right back in line…”

Now, it was Aziraphale’s turn to fall silent. He knew there was some truth in what he said. He did not like to think about Armageddon himself, because that was the one thing that would put him and Crowley on opposite sides. He had not fathomed the possibility to refuse the call when it would come. He could never. He was an angel, bound to serve the Great Plan in all its intricate and unfathomable design. Ineffable. Still, here they were, an angel and a demon racing across the world together because the demon wanted to stop something bad from happening. If anything, they too were, in their own way, ineffable.

“Why Lake Victoria?” Crowley asked, all of a sudden. Aziraphale was rudely shaken by the question. He had hoped Crowley would assume he did not know, without pressing him on it. Then, he could continue playing the happy, guiltless angel on a road trip with his friend. Crowley explicitly sought the confrontation, it seemed. It was a question Aziraphale had to answer, because Crowley was his friend. He was also prohibited from talking about it, because if there was something that could break their friendship, it was this.

“Priority” Aziraphale said, nearly chocking on the last syllable. He did not feel the need to say more, but the questioning look coming from Crowley was enough to squeeze it all out.

“It’s priority. The Almighty lists regions by priority. Jerusalem, Mecca, Rome, those are high up. India, China, Africa, they…”

“Are not as important?” Crowley said, with a soft voice. For a moment, Aziraphale thought the demon would understand. When he looked at his friend, however, his eyes showed him the opposite. Even through the dark sunglasses he could see Crowley’s burning eyes, the slits burning through the darkened glass. Smoke rose from his seat and the steering wheel, which were superheated by the demon’s touch. As Crowley spoke, Azirpahale could see the forked tongue shooting from between his sharp, aggressive teeth.

“NOT. AS. IMPORTANT?” Crowley yelled. “AZIRAPHALE!” 

“It’s not as if I have a choice!” Aziraphale said. He had planned for it to sound matter-of-factly, but instead it was defensive, soft, apologetic. It was weak.

“Sometimes you have to break a few eggs in order…”

“Oh, shut up, please, before I kick you out” Crowley interjected. “That’s disgusting and you know it. Sacrificing innocent people for your Greater Good… It is sick. _Sick.”_

“We don’t all have the luxury of being demonic” Aziraphale spat back. He now too began to exude anger. His white sweater began to radiate a pure light, and a golden halo appeared above his head, shining with gold and silver.

“Your lot just have to destroy and tempt. When a demon spreads disease, it does not matter how much there is destroyed. But when you have to protect, like we do, a single mistake can be fatal. We have to go above and beyond to keep humanity safe, and that requires sacrifice. Not that you would know about sacrifice…”

The Bentley came to a screeching halt. The asphalt below was torched instantly, leaving two flaming streaks behind the tires. Aziraphale was almost launched through the windshield, but managed to grab hold of the door handle in order to prevent his catapultation. Before he could ask what was going on, Aziraphale had already spotted it. From a rise in the landscape they now overlooked the city of Jerusalem, sprawling in the valley before them. It was illuminated, hundreds of thousands of little lights piercing through the morning dark. The early sun could not reach the city, however, which was covered in a thick layer of smoke. Pillars of black smoke rose from the city centre, the Temple Mount lit by giant tongues of flame. In the middle of the smoking pillars, a dark shape could be made out. A monster of dark blues, reds, purples and greens, crashing through ancient stone walls as if they were made from sugar.

Aziraphale and Crowley had gotten out of the Bentley, and were now looking at the carnage with their mouths hanging open. Aziraphale covered his in disgust. From where they stood, the cries of the city could be made out easily, speaking a dozen different languages at once. It was a sight of helplessness, of utter powerlessness. Before their eyes, the golden dome of the mosque came down, throwing up a cloud of ash and cinders. Aziraphale was only pulled away by the sight when he heard the doors of the Bentley close. Behind him, Crowley had gotten back into his car, his face solidified with purpose.

“Crowley… No…” Aziraphale uttered softly. He ran up to the driver’s window and knocked, but Crowley would not roll it down.

“Crowley, please don’t. There is nothing you can do”

“I must try” Crowley simply said back, as the Bentley began to reverse. “I did this”

“No, please…” Aziraphale pleaded. “We managed to strike a deal with him, there is no need…”

“If you think that I believe the death of 30 million people is in any way acceptable, you are mistaken” Crowley responded.

“It is better than the alternative” Aziraphale tried, but he saw there was no changing Crowley’s mind.

“I will not exist in a world where I have accepted that” Crowley answered. Then, he pushed down on the pedal, and the Bentley shot off towards the city. Aziraphale ran after it, but could not keep up with the car by any stretch of the imagination. He fell down on his knees, tears streaming down his colourless cheeks.

“CROWLEY!” he shouted impotently, as if shouting it would make the demon come back. Nothing on Earth would.

**Chapter 6: Job’s Job.**

_There are two ways to tell who a man really is, exemplified by the Old and the New testament. In the Old Testament, we find the story of Job, a faithful servant of Me and a devout believer. Satan and I then made a bet whether Job’s devotion was due to his material wealth and his emotional fortune, as the Prince of Darkness claimed. To prove his devotion, I took everything from him. He lost his house, his wealth, his family… In the end, he was left destitute and alone, but clinging on to faith regardless. It was one of my proudest moments._

_Just as powerlessness is a measure of moral character, so too is power a meter by which to judge a person. Unopposed by any practical encumbrance, a person will show whether their previous morality was due to a deep conviction, or whether they were just powerless to do anything. Refraining from robbing a bank is not the pinnacle of morality if the only thing stopping you is not owning a gun. So, when the demon Crowley showed my Son all the kingdoms of the world and He refused the temptation, that too was a measure, and that too was one of my proudest moments._

It was three hours after they had arrived in Jerusalem that Aziraphale first entered the burned city. It bore the resemblance of a ghost town, where before it had been one of the busiest in the world. A layer of smoke and dust created a veil through which the sun could hardly penetrate, and which covered everything in a thin layer of grey. Every step Aziraphale took reverberated through the empty streets, as if he were walking through a grey-stone canyon. Life and the lifeless could not be easily distinguished. Ash-covered forms could be rubble or people alike, and there was no telling which was which. Aziraphale had no intention to find out, either.

Around him, not a pane of glass was left in its place. Modern and medieval shards lay spread like crystal, shimmering softly by the few rays that could penetrate the rubble mist cover. Most the buildings outside the city centre itself were unharmed, but the closer Aziraphale came to the Temple Mount, the more pieces of debris he had to pass. It did not bode well for what occurred there. Distant wails of the dead and dying mixed with sirens to create an unharmonic melody of misery, one that would soon be joined by the roar of cannon and cries of battle.

The angel heard something scurrying behind him, and looked around. Human shapes were scattering as he approached, and returned once he had passed them. People looking for lost loved ones, for medical aid, for food and shelter. Hiding for the violence that was yet to come, because while Behemoth might have left, his destruction would undoubtedly have broad consequences. A war of religion not seen since the Crusades.

As he looked behind him, Aziraphale spotted something curious, however. The footsteps he left while passing through the ash were accompanied by a second pair, invisibly created just beside his. Aziraphale sighed as he saw them. He had no need to talk right now, but it appeared he had to.

“Gabriel…” he said softly. When he turned back around, the arch-angel was standing there. His face was unlike anything Aziraphale had ever seen. The confident smile had disappeared, replaced by something that was akin to guilt, but not quite as clear. There still was conviction there, a quality Gabriel never lacked, but there was also some manner of confusion there.

“Behemoth was last seen heading south. It seems he has kept to our agreement” Gabriel said.

“That’s nice” Aziraphale said half-heartedly continuing walking towards the Temple Mount. Gabriel joined him, now visible. As he spoke, Aziraphale could hardly tell who Gabriel was trying to convince: The Principality, or the arch-angel.

“Now, Behemoth has indeed only destroyed a tenth of the city, but of course he had chosen the Temple Mount. That was not unexpected. Undoubtedly, demonic influences are trying their best to spark a war, but we hope our agents can counter them. All in all, I think we can call this a success”

Aziraphale did not answer him immediately. They walked a few more yards and turned a corner before Aziraphale managed to say anything.

“Success… How?” He asked. Gabriel did not understand the question, at first.

“Well… Behemoth has not destroyed all of Jerusalem. Most of it is intact. He is heading south, so our deal worked” he argued.

“So far…” Aziraphale retorted.

“Excuse me?” Gabriel inquired.

“We have no means to stop Behemoth. What we did was not a deal, it was a plea for mercy. And Behemoth is not bound to keep his word. When he is done with Lake Victoria, nothing is stopping him from coming back, or levelling Rome, or crossing the Red Sea to Medina. And what then?”

“We make another deal!” Gabriel said, as if stating the obvious.

“Again and again, until we have sold out the entire world? And the Pope is the last human alive?” Aziraphale said, increasing his pace.

“If necessary, but it won’t come to that” Gabriel said authoritatively.

“Right… Right…” Aziraphale responded, unconvinced.

“Listen, I have to go. But I wanted to let you know that we won, here, even if it does not feel like it. Okay? I’ll see you around…” Gabriel said half-heartily, before turning around to walk away. Aziraphale did not even turn to follow him. What use was there now? With Crowley gone, his job would just be performing more miracles until the end of days, when he would join the ranks of angels to defeat the forces of evil. So it was written. Never again would they converse as equals. There was no-one to rival Crowley, and no-one he would now share the rest of his long, angelic life with. Perhaps there were humans worthy of company. He could try that. Anything but the self-satisfied smugness of angels.

“Oh, Aziraphale” a voice called out. Gabriel had come back.

“Behemoth has been seen flying south… holding something in his claws. A human form, with a particular set of sunglasses. I thought you might want to know…”

As Gabriel disappeared again, Aziraphale turned the corner and entered the Temple Mount. He had expected to see angry mobs going at each other, soldiers from both sides exchanging fire and emergency services being assaulted by the angry faithful. What Aziraphale saw, however, was the opposite. Jews, Muslims and Christians alike were running around with buckets, stretchers and first aid kits. Here, a veiled woman was bandaging the head of an orthodox Jew. There, two Christians ran out of a still burning building, holding a Muslim man between them. There was no violence but the violence brought about by Behemoth.

At the centre of the square, now turned into a makeshift hospital, stood a large logging truck. The logs had been pulled off in order to support walls in danger of falling down, and people were loading on debris in order to get them off the square. Everyone here was of one religion, in a sense, and fighting for themselves as well as others. As long as these were the images to be beamed across the world, Aziraphale thought, war would not come. He took a deep breath. If that was the case, then Crowley’s effort had not been for nothing, even if it failed. He rolled up his sleeves and took brisk steps towards the truck.

“I’m sorry” he said to the driver. “But can I borrow that for a moment? And do you have any gasoline?”

**Chapter 7: A Demon in Distress**

_It is an often stated falsehood that the only man-made objects visible from space are the Great Wall of China and Scrooge McDuck’s Money Bin. This falsehood, like the blessed Saint Bartholomew, has many layers. First, there are many structures visible from what humans would deem ‘space’, including cities that shine brightly into the night telling twinkling stars who’s boss. Secondly, the Great Wall of China is not visible from what humans would call space. It simply isn’t, you can go and check. But most importantly, every man-made object is visible from space, because the distinction between ‘earth’ and ‘space’ is rather arbitrary. It is so quintessentially human to look at everything that has ever been created, call it all ‘space’, and assume that Earth is the only pristine ball that is not included, as it orbits the sun at break-neck speeds. If humans were to notice that they were, in fact, in space, perhaps a lot of attitudes about a lot of different things might change. Certainly visible from space, however, was a Crowley-shaped line running through the Sahara desert, accompanied by what looked like the tracks of a bipedal elephant._

_Fourthly, McDuck’s Money Bin is fiction._

“Are we there yet?” Crowley asked, doing his best impression of a very bored child about to visit his equally boring grandparents. His arms lay outstretched over his head, creating two impressions that flanked the drag marks his body left in the scorching sand. His face mimicked his tone in every facet.

“No” came the deep, growling reply of his captor. As his grip around Crowley’s ankle tightened, the demon quietly adjusted his own size just a little to make it more comfortable.

“Oh…” Crowley simply replied. After a moment’s silence, he began to whistle the theme of ‘It’s a small world’, the rights to which he had sold to Disney the previous year.

“Must you do that?” Behemoth inquired, to which Crowley invisibly shrugged. At least, he let his arms be dragged a little more behind him. Suddenly, he stopped, raising his head from the sand.

“Behemoth…” he said. The monster stopped, looking around the empty desert. It seemed devoid of life, entirely abandoned, left to scorch in the sun.

“What is it?” Behemoth asked, scanning the horizon.

“Are we there yet?”

Behemoth let out a thunderous roar, and with a single movement he tossed Crowley into the air. About two hundred meters above the desert sands he arched, coming down hard again and crashing down with an underwhelming thud.

“I… I could see my house…” he started, but he did not have the breath to finish it. “Worth it…” he just added, before being pulled out of the sand with a mighty jerk.

“You truly are a demon, Crowley…” the Monster said. Crowley shrugged.

“I am the Snake of Minor Inconvenience, what can I say. Only one person has yet been able to put up with me”

“Yeah? Shall I continue this path with you face-down?” Behemoth asked, twisting Crowley’s angle in such a way that his chest now rested on the scorching sands.

“Go ahead” was the answer, slightly muffled as Crowley buried his head in both a figurative and literal manner.

“It can’t be worse than falling from heaven”

“You…” For the first time since meeting him in the Yard, Crowley managed to spot a hint of speechlessness in the otherwise boastful monster. His whole chest seemed to rumble, with a deepness that seemed to come from the centre of the earth.

“You Demons, and you Angels… You have so very little perspective. You do not know punishment”

“Did you not listen?” Crowley interjected. There was much the Demon could take, but having his Fall questioned by a thirsty overgrown rhinoceros with claws and a fig tail went a too far for him that day. “You really don’t know the first thing about demons if…”

“NO!”

The voice of Behemoth was like thunder. A shockwave emanated from the ground outward, blasting up plumes of sand as the wave hit crests of the dunes spread out around them. Now, his grip really tightened, and Crowley for a moment of surprise forgot his ability to adjust size.

“Do you know what I am, Crawley?” Suddenly, he let go of the demon, taking a few paces away from him.

“Do you know where I come from? I was born out of a bet between Lucifer and the Almighty. I, one of the Three Monsters, created with a thirst to drink the world dry and a power to break nations… was created because the Almighty wanted to win a bet. The whole book of Job is a travesty, and I am the cherry on the horrendous cake that is that chapter of our history”

Suddenly, there was silence. The Monster looked around, like a scared dog looking for his master. He sank to his knees, digging his hands into the sands.

“Crawley… You had a choice, you know… All demons had. And all angels. Made as God’s favourites, you rebelled because you were in danger of becoming second-place. And how were you punished? You fell, allowed to perform mischief to your heart’s desire. You fulfil a purpose”

“My purpose, Crawley… Crowley… My purpose was to win a bet and to be defeated by your Angel. That’s my story. I was created with singular purpose to thirst forever more and never be quenched. I was created the lowest of the lowest without a shred of power to save myself, with my only prospect being oblivion. Not damnation, but oblivion.”

“So let me have this thing, Crowley. The being most wronged by God taking out my revenge on those She deemed of ‘lesser priority’. Is that not poetic? Spare me your self-pity, third-favorite child of the Almighty”

Crowley had a bunch of quips ready. A mention of how Aziraphale was more into poetry, that he was more into the Beatles. A ton of snarky remarks. Yet, even in his dark heart, he could not bring them over his lips. There was catharsis in making jokes at the expense of the powerful, to climb up from a low. Here… There was no fun in it, no reward. Seeing the Second Monster, bones of bronze and iron, claws that shred the world, with a thirst to drink the oceans, down on his knees, gave him not a hundredth of the relief he thought he would have felt. He looked up at the sky.

“Well, you can sit here moping, but…” he started, but his heart ached.

“Never mind. We need to get going, sun’s getting low. This place is boring, I wanna go somewhere where they have a jukebox”

**Chapter 8: A flaming sword**

_What does it mean to be good?_

_I once dropped that bombshell in Limbo as a means to add to the punishment of those there. Now, you could say that it is unfair to punish people for not believing in Christ before he was born, but you’ll have to take that up with Satan. I usually don’t ask questions, I just let things run their course, exactly as I had planned it._

_The central problem is this: is goodness to achieve a righteous goal, or is goodness to do good, whatever the goal? In other words, is it better to achieve a worthy goal by questionable means, or to fail to achieve a worthy goal having done good along the way? On the one hand, however laudable your goal, the people you hurt along the way will not thank you for your efforts, and if you fail, then you will have failed doubly. Achieving a worse goal through evil means. Then again, if you fail to achieve a worthy goal, there will be victims as well, and knowing that you could have done better, they might not thank you either._

_Having been sent to a form of hell for not believing in the unborn Christ, however, the philosophers of old were quite unwilling to engage with my question. Socrates just kept reiterating the question in subtly different ways trying to get me to make a mistake, Pythagoras could not stop talking about beans, and Plato was laughing all the way because of the irony of his afterlife consisting of being stuck in a cave. The moral of the story eludes me still, which is something coming from the Almighty._

The Beast and the demon crested hill after hill in their march towards Lake Victoria. Uganda was a country of unmatched natural beauty, which caused in Behemoth and Crowley differing reactions. Crowley knew that all this land was dependent on water from the great lake, and that Behemoth’s consumption would render it, and the people that depended on it, as dry as the Sahara they had just crossed, and he was powerless to stop it. His attempts to escape had ceased, he knew there was no point in even trying. The Beast never tired, never slept, never rested.

Behemoth, on the other hand, seemed only delighted at the prospect of what he was going to cause. Like Crowley, he too looked about him, observing the pristine environment that surrounded them. He looked like a beast hungry, not only for one thing, but also for the results the consumption of that thing would bring about.

“You can still stop, you know” Crowley started. “Your nature does not define who you are. I should know”

Behemoth huffed, and marched onward, his elephantine feet trudging in the dirt.

“You are not to blame for your circumstances, but you will be blamed for your actions” the demon added, hoping for some manner of response. 

“I know, Crowley” Behemoth answered. His voice had changed over the time they had spent together. It was more neutral. There was less of a threat emanating from it, as it had done before. Of course, there was no need to intimidate Crowley, but also no need to change tone.

“But…” Behemoth said, pondering his words.

“But at least I will share blame with my creator, and that is all the satisfaction I can hope for”

Downhill they now went, following a winding path into a small valley. The path rose again before them, cresting the hill on the other side of the valley.

“Behind that hill lies Victoria. I can smell it, all 2,500,000,000,000,000 liters of it. It has a fitting name for the start of my vengeance”

“Start?” Crowley inquired. Behemoth smiled, in a manner that betrayed a deep happiness and contentment with what he was thinking about. A smile that made Crowley shudder to the bone.

“Yes, Crawley, yes… The angels have nothing to defeat me. I will make them compromise and compromise until they stop or they have nothing left to compromise with. There is still so much water left, and I am ever thirsting”

Crowley’s mind began to race. He looked about him, anything he could find that would help him. They had now reached the bottom of the valley, and started their ascent to the top of the last hill. Quick as lightning, he made a dash for the bushes beside the road, hoping to slip away. However, as soon as he made the leap, his legs were pulled out from underneath him, and Behemoth’s claw closed painfully around his ankle. Crowley picked up a handful of dirt and threw it at the creature’s eyes, who was entirely unfazed by the gesture.

“STOP! STOP! PLEASE! BEHEMOTH…” Crowley shouted, kicking away at the giant claw that held him captive. There was no use. He shrank his ankle again, and again the grip only grew tighter. Desperate, he tried to shift into a snake form, but with a single great swing Behemoth struck him against a tree, shattering it into a thousand splinters. The whack caused enough hurt to make any further attempt at planning unsuccessful. 

“I want you to see this, Crowley. You, of all people, should witness…”

Then, both Behemoth and Crowley looked up the hill, their attention drawn by a sound unlike any they had heard before. The truth about celestial harmonies is that they are harmonies. The angelic nature finds its origin in the melody, the system of notes, and not so much through the instrument. A celestial harmony can be played on any instrument, it’s just that harps and trumpets fit the angelic aesthetic. Drums, pianos, and ukuleles can play these harmonies just as well, or, in this case:

The horn of a logging truck.

Rising above the hill, with the sun coming up behind, was a sight for the ages. A large logging truck, entirely aflame, stood proudly before them. As the horns played their harmony, the most beautiful music known to reality, they spouted fire like an active volcano. Standing atop the cabin was a humanoid form, bathed in heavenly light. His angelic wings were spread wide, and a golden halo topped his head like a crown. In his hands, he held what looked like reigns, leading down into the cabin of the truck. On its front was painted in gasoline the letter 7, also heavily on fire.

“Aziraphale!” Crowley managed to shout, his head still dizzy with pain. “Angel!”

“Crowley!” came ringing the angelic voice of the Principality, standing in the fullest glory.

“Fools!” shouted Behemoth, who threw Crowley aside.

“Nothing you can do can stop me, angel. You have lost!” he cried, as his body began to melt into a form of darkness. His form turned to shadow of dark reds and purples, and his voice turned to the deep rumble of a waterfall, or a thousand murderous beasts.

“Perhaps” came the answer from Aziraphale. “But I will ram this rig into you nonetheless!”

With that he whipped up the reigns, causing the truck to start rolling down the hill. The wind made his wings flutter, shining with a brilliant silver in the rising sun. The intake of air made all the flames burn brighter, until it looked like Aziraphale was riding a meteor. Faster and faster, the rig gained speed, closing the distance more and more. Behemoth, satisfied that he could only be defeated by a flaming swords, stood perfectly still, ready to receive the incoming projectile. Only in the last moment, when Behemoth’s eyes saw the brilliant blue of Aziraphale’s, the monster wavered. His dark jaw dropped, and with a final effort he let out a great cry.

“NOOOOOOOO…”

Then, the two connected. The flaming truck pierced the veil of shadows, tearing it apart as if it had been nothing but a curtain. As if they were made from flammable fabrics, the wisps of shadow emanating from the being were set aflame and burnt up. A great cloud of smoke was thrown skywards, and as the truck cleared the place where Behemoth had stood, only a small patch of burnt dirt remained.

Soon after, the truck came to a halt, and Aziraphale graciously floated down from the cabin. He came up beside Crowley, laying in the dirt, and reached with his hand. His wings folded back, and the halo slowly disappeared into thin air. Crowley graciously accepted and allowed himself to be pulled up, only to be met by the warmest embrace Aziraphale had ever given him.

“I thought I had lost you, dear” the angel said, shivering. Crowley didn’t say anything, because he did not want to betray that he himself was also shivering, and on the verge of breaking down sobbing. This lasted for all of five seconds, before Crowley answered the embrace with one of his own. The kindest he had ever given.

“So did I, Angel… God…”

After standing there for what felt like hours, the two let go, seating themselves on a dead tree by the side of the road. The flaming truck, which was now almost beyond recognition, had been burnt to a crisp. The flames were only doused when a sudden, or miraculous, downpour began, saving the surrounding vegetation. Aziraphale’s wings spread again, shielding his demonic friend from the rain.

“So he is defeated?” Crowley asked. Aziraphale nodded.

“I believe so” he answered. Crowley gave him a confused sideways glance.

“There was no flaming sword, though” he said. That caused in Aziraphale a smile that, in any other creature than an angel, would be described as slightly mischievous.

“It was a little trick of mine” he said mysteriously, which both annoyed Crowley and made his demonic heart beat ten times faster.

“Whaaaaat was it?” he asked, doing his best to mask his own delight.

“The Hebrew symbol for sword and seven are the same. I just put a seven on fire and hoped it would count”

A moment of stunned silence followed. Crowley looked dead ahead.

“But… but…” he tried, but there was no wrapping his head around it.

“You _knew_ that would work?” he uttered, his confusion now clearly visible.

“No, no, not really” Aziraphale responded guiltily. “But I had to try anyway”

“How did it manage to drive while it was on fire?” Crowley inquired.

“There are a thing or two I can teach you about imagination” Aziraphale said mysteriously. “Over lunch, perhaps?”

There they sat, an angel and a demon, shielding each other from the rain, at a field of victory. The watched the downpour grow into tiny puddles, like tiny rivers, bringing life to the soil and the life on it. Animals, undisturbed by their presence, came out of hiding, using whatever water they needed before returning to the safety of their nests. Birds bathed in fresh puddles, and insects crawled onto the land to find safety from flooding tunnels.

“Say, Angel…” Crowley started. “Do you want a lift home?”

Aziraphale smiled a loving smile.

“You go too fast for me, Crowley” he answered, his tone not serious now, but joyful and amicable.

“I think 200 miles per hour will do just fine” 

Author: James Usari

Artist: Desmyblank


End file.
